


'cause i'm a little unsteady

by chemicalroses



Category: Fairy Tail
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, I'm so sorry, M/M, Mentions of other characters - Freeform, Sad, Smut, stingue, this took me so long to write
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-23
Updated: 2015-06-23
Packaged: 2018-04-05 18:15:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4190028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chemicalroses/pseuds/chemicalroses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>.</p><p>"I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, he loved you,”</p><p>The string snapped inside of Sting and he screamed into Natsu’s scarf, because the blood on his hands wasn’t his.</p>
            </blockquote>





	'cause i'm a little unsteady

**Author's Note:**

> Listen to sad music while reading this. It makes it better, I think...

The only thing Sting could remember about the day he met Rogue was the sunset. Dark purple had settled everywhere except the bloody sliver sinking behind the sad excuses for trees, which were naked and cracked and apparently perfect for _not_ blocking the light. He didn’t believe that the boy had red eyes at first, because they were the exact same shade as the slice of sun still left in the sky. Even when it vanished and the shadows swallowed the distracting landscape, he wasn’t convinced. 

“Are you alone?” He had asked him, taking cautious steps forwards. 

“Yes,”

His trembling voice and eerie features were the only indicators Sting had regarding where the boy was, because he blended in with the darkness.

“Me too,”

“Oh,”

He didn’t remember how or why it happened, because the only thing Sting could remember was seeing pale skin and those red, red eyes that looked too intense to be real. Somehow, someway, that must’ve been important.

He knew, because after that, they weren’t alone anymore.

.

“You know it’s stupid, right?”

“Joining a guild?”

“Mmhmm,”

Rogue sighed into his black scarf. It wasn’t an annoyed or tired sigh; if it was then his eyes wouldn’t have been as bright. It was just a knowing sigh, existing only because Sting was stubborn and didn’t like co-existing with _anybody_ , let alone other wizards.

(Rogue being the exception, of course. When it came to Sting’s personal list of rules, Rogue was always the exception.)

Sting knew it didn’t matter what the shadow slayer said next, it could’ve been an argument saying that joining Sabertooth would make them stronger, or that Lector and Frosch would feel more comfortable around a large group of people. He could’ve said _anything_ and Sting would inevitably cave, which was why he knew it was the end as soon as Rogue opened his mouth.

“Be stupid with me, Sting,”

And that he did.

.

At first, their guild was a sad place. The master was abusive and the members were cold and uninviting, except for Yukino, who latched onto anyone who was remotely nice to her (which meant that Rogue became her friend in less than thirty seconds).

At the beginning, the evil vibe wasn’t noticed. Sting was too hyped off of the idea of training and Rogue was too busy making sure his friend wouldn’t fall and kill himself to really pay attention to who, _what_ , they were becoming.

“I’m going to kill him,” Sting would repeat over and over as he read about Natsu’s famous reappearance, each time with his hands clenched into shaking fists at his sides. It was during one of these moments, Rogue couldn’t remember which one, that he caught a glimpse of the blond’s expression.

“Don’t say that, Sting,” He said weakly, staring into piercing, _angry_ eyes, “You’re too good,”

“Apparently I’m not above killing my own father,” Sting was moving towards him, sharp teeth bared and grinding together harshly.

“That’s different, you had to—“

“It’s not different, I’m a murderer! I always have been, and I always will be, can’t you see that, Rogue?”

The only thing the shadow slayer could think was that this _wasn’t_ Sting, and if it was, he needed _help_. How long had he worn this angry face? How long had it been since he had smiled without being forced to?

“St—“

“Don’t tell me I’m wrong, because you’re just as bad as I am and you know it,”

Fuming blue eyes met startled red ones and then he was gone—out the door and down the hallway before Rogue had the chance to stop him.

He came back, eventually. Sting always came back.

.

“Smoking isn’t good for you,”

The hand holding the cigarette tensed against the blonde’s lips.

“I don’t care,”

“I do,”

Rogue was leaning against the balcony railing next to him, watching the lazy clouds come undone in the grey sky. Sting was glancing back at him, lidded eyes flashing bright against the dull backdrop.

“You know, Gray Fullbuster smokes and he’s perfectly fine,”

Lips quirked up in a smirk.

“He _used_ to smoke,” Rogue corrected, “and he only started because he was depressed,”

“I’m depressed,”

“Why?”

Sting looked up with a completely blank expression stitched onto his face.

“Because I’m a fucking mess,”

The shadow slayer didn’t know what to say or how to say it, because Sting looked like he was about to jump over the ledge at any moment and wasn’t about to stop if Rogue simply asked him to.

“Talk to me, Sting,”

He was being genuine, because he knew this boy inside and out, and whatever Sting was hiding must’ve been pretty fucking important to reduce him to this; someone who didn’t talk or laugh anymore.

( _God_ , Sting had a beautiful laugh, Rogue thought, and he could only think about it, because all that he had left was a fuzzy memory.)

“I don’t have anything to say,”

“Don’t you trust me?”

“With my life,”

His voice was hard and dead serious, though he refused to look him in the eyes as he spoke. Rogue clenched his fists.

“Then why do you push me away?”

It was an easy question, one that could’ve been answered verbally, perhaps in one or two syllables. But Sting had never been that simple and Rogue was a fool for thinking this time he’d be different. It was very unexpectedly expected, because not even two seconds after he had asked the question the blond was clutching his shirt collar and kissing him hard.

It took a few moments for Rogue to fully understand what was going on. All he could focus on at first was the overwhelming taste of ash and mint, and the more Sting kept pushing the harder it became for Rogue to think. There were fireworks behind his eyes and his head was throbbing almost as loudly as his heart was beating, and _of course_ he kissed him back because it was _Sting_ , and when Sting wanted something, he got it.

Plus, Rogue was pretty sure he was falling in love with him.

No words were exchanged once they parted, because it was perfectly clear.

“We can be messes together,” Rogue finally said.

Sting stared at him, lips pulled up in a surprised grin, before dropping the cigarette on the ground and grasping Rogue’s hand in its place.

.

Sting didn’t like hiding things from people; he liked flaunting whatever he had in their faces. This was why Rogue was confusing, because everyone knew they were each other’s, but no one knew to what extent—including the two involved. Yeah, they held hands and kissed and did some other things that crossed the “strictly friends” line, but it was so easy and so natural that they didn’t even need to think about it.

“Sting,”

“Mm?”

Rogue sat behind him on the bed, gently running hands through wispy blond hair. Sting was confused that night, not only because Natsu had beat the shit out of both of them, or how he had just killed their guild master, or how Minerva kidnapped Lector; he was more confused about _what the fuck_ Rogue was still doing there.

“Remember to breathe,” The raven ran his hands lower, to the nape of Sting’s neck, and began to massage the tense muscle underneath.

“I don’t know why you’re still here,” He sighed shakily, hot tears threatening to spill down his stinging cheeks. Rogue didn’t answer him for a while; he kept up with the ministrations until Sting sat up slowly to face him and then raised his arms to defend himself from the other’s killer glare.

“What do you want me to say, Sting,” Rogue asked weakly, “You need me here. I need to be here.”

Sting still didn’t understand it, not until the next day, after he had kneeled before Titania and the rest of the Fairy Tail team and walked shamefully through the hallway (not as sad as he had originally had been, since Lector was back) towards the rest of his team, when he heard his name.

“Sting Kun!”

It was Frosch, and Sting tried to walk even faster because when there was Frosch, there was Rogue, and when there was Rogue, Sting was helpless.

“ _Sting_!”

He didn’t want to turn around; he really didn’t, because he knew all he’d see was Rogue’s disappointed face, and then listen to him ask if he was fucking _okay_ , because all Sting ever did was screw everything up until there was nothing left. However, he had no power to resist looking back when he heard the call.

And surprisingly enough, he never got the chance to see Rogue’s face, because as soon as he turned around the shadow mage had jumped him hard enough to make him stumble backwards into a wall.

“Thank you,” Rogue said between rushed kisses. He was beaten and bruised from his fight with Gajeel, and the darkness inside of him was stronger than it had been in a long time, but _still_ , even after all of that, he ran towards Sting with as much energy as he could muster.

He didn’t bother answering, because no words were needed—and when he looked over Rogue’s shoulder to see two very shocked exceeds staring at them, he could only laugh into the other’s mouth.

.

They grew closer during the next few months. Now that their exceeds knew about them, they felt free to be around each other in public and otherwise.

(Plus, if Frosch and Lector knew, then there was a 99% chance of the entire guild knowing, too. Rogue never taught Frosch to keep things to himself, and Lector was Lector.)

Rogue knew he was in love with him since their first kiss on the balcony.

Sting knew he was in love with him when he came home from signing documents and found the slayer curled up on the couch, wearing a thick black sweater and his hair sloppily tugged down around his shoulders, shivering and trying to go to sleep.

“Cold,” He had murmured when he realized Sting had gotten back. His arms were open and the blond wasted no time in kicking off his shoes and jeans before snuggling in, making sure to hold him as close as possible so he wouldn’t feel the cold.

(And _fuck_ , did Rogue get cold. His skin was so freezing in that moment Sting was confident he was on par with Gray.)

“Better?” He whispered into the soft black hair on the top of his head.

“Mmm,”

.

“The ocean’s in your eyes, Sting,”

The blond paused, hands still wrapped loosely around dark hair and mouth still only millimeters away from where it wanted to be. He was used to Rogue’s every-day metaphors, and normally he humored him by giving a sloppy one in return. But this time the words felt different—heavier—maybe because Sting was straddling him and they were both half-naked, or because the more they kissed the hotter the room felt. Either way, it was different.

His gaze flickered up to see how beautiful Rogue was, flushed and hot and breathing words meant only for Sting. Rogue was completely and utterly wrecked for him. The light slayer wished he could show him how obvious the dark one’s affections were, how meaningful they were, how badly he craved him. But a visual wasn’t necessary, because Sting was the same way. That was the great thing about Rogue; he didn’t care about rules or proof or _anything_. As far as he was concerned, they could both be wrecked together.

“And the sunset’s in yours,”

He didn’t know what happened next, only that Rogue’s lips were on his and rough hands were running up over his stomach and neck and arms and _everywhere_ , and he couldn’t help but gasp into the others mouth because it felt so _good_.

“Rogue,” He had panted into the slayer’s neck, once they had forgotten about clothes and moved to the floor, “Rogue, you know, _ah_ , you know, I, _hmm_ , I—”

“I know,” The raven finished for him, partially because Sting couldn’t get the words out but also because he already knew what he was trying to say. He had for a long time. “I, I love you, too,”

They didn’t talk any more after that. They just moved together at a steady pace, both breathless and shaking and occasionally gasping the others name or things like _more_ and _faster_ , _oh fuck, faster_. Sting was nearly positive that he was crying into Rogue’s shoulder, because no one had ever touched him like this, or cared for him like this, or _loved_ him before, and it was all too much.

He woke up the next morning with aching limbs and a crick in his neck that refused to go away, but he didn’t regret anything, especially since Rogue was right there with him.

.

Sting was fragile.

He denied this, because he needed to be strong, for Lector and his guild and for the dragon he had respected enough to kill. Rogue was the string that tied him together, the reason why Sting could live every day to the fullest—even the bad ones, when everything seemed to turn to shit and all he could feel were judging eyes boring into his back.

Rogue had his own demons to deal with; he didn’t need Sting weighing him down. His demons were literally inside of him, waiting to take control and change him into the monster he could potentially become. Still, he was there every step of the way, brushing his own feelings aside in the process.

It had been easy, Sting realized, to fall in love with Rogue. It was just difficult to say it. How could he possibly say those three words to someone whose life was worth ten of his?

There were times where he felt the words on the tip of his tongue, which happened mostly when Rogue had a bad day spent crouched in the corner of their dark bedroom trying to regain self-control. Sting wanted to hold him, to repeat the words over and over until Rogue understood, but he couldn’t do it.

When he did finally say the words, it was unfair.

It was the final battle, between tons of guilds and an enemy Sting chose to forget. There was screaming and blood everywhere; wizards were falling left and right and all the light slayer could think of was Yukino and Minerva and Rufus and all of his other guild mates and whether or not they were alive. The only reason why he wasn’t worried about Rogue was because he had been next to him, clutching his hand.

He had been _right next to him_.

There was a bomb underneath the city, big enough to wipe it off of the map and take their lives with it. There was a plan, at first, which was to deactivate it before it was ready to blow. But it was immediately scrapped when they realized the only way to stop it was to use foreign magic on the code—resulting in the demise of the explosive and of the person to which the magic belonged.

It was counting down quickly, and it wasn’t until they were all standing in range of the deactivator that Rogue turned around to grasp the back of Sting’s head and kiss him harder than he ever had before. There was blood in his mouth and everyone was watching, but it was alright, because it was pretty clear they were all going to die in 48 seconds anyway.

“Do you love me, Sting?” Rogue asked desperately, red eyes gazing into piercing blue ones.

“Yes,” He answered without a second thought. Rogue pulled him closer, looked in deeper, and Sting could see the tears building up in his eyes.

“I need to hear you say it,” The raven whispered, “Sting, I need to hear you say it,”

“I love you,”

The words were out before the blond could think about them, and his heart fluttered when Rogue’s wide smile turned into a teary laugh.

“That’s enough,” He kept repeating to himself, “that’s enough, that’s all I need,”

For two seconds, Sting could think clearly; he knew they were all going to die here, that they were going to go down in flames, and in those two seconds, he was okay with that. But that moment fled as quickly as it came, when Rogue gave him one last slow kiss and then ripped himself away towards the deactivator in the center of the room.

It took Gray, Juvia and Natsu, all at full power, to hold him back. Their arms were wrapped around his waist and arms and legs and Sting couldn’t move, or follow him or do _anything_ but scream—scream for him to stop and to turn around and that he wasn’t thinking straight, that this was just one of the bad days; scream for the others to help him, for them to stop being crazy and fucking _help_.

 _“We can’t, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,”_ Gray was crying openly, and Sting couldn’t bring himself to listen—not when the man to whom he’d just confessed was about to commit suicide.

Rogue didn’t look back over his shoulder until the last possible second, when his hand was raised above the deactivator and ready to drop. He turned then, the image burning in Sting’s mind and heart and soul, and his breath hitched in his throat when he realized there was nothing he could do. But despite that, despite everything, Rogue was beautiful. Rogue had always been beautiful.

His hair was pulled back and the usual bangs covering his right eye had been brushed behind his ear, exposing the beautiful face Sting had fallen asleep next to for so many years. There were tears running down those cheeks. There were lots of them, but he was smiling with trembling lips and Sting was terrified, more so then he ever had been, because he knew it was the end.

He was still screaming when it happened. His throat was bleeding and his entire body was beginning to give up on him, but he kept it up, until Rogue’s pale, bloody hand exploded in shadows and crashed down onto the deactivation code. After that, Sting didn’t know what he did, because all he could hear was white noise and all he could see was Rogue being drowned in light. The shadow was being ripped, suffocating, until it was too much—then the light was everywhere and Sting was thrown backwards by the harsh shake of an explosion.

Hours probably passed between that moment and the next, or so he thought, because everything was still in slow motion when he opened his eyes. It was dusty and dark, with shards of glass and metal covering the floor. He was littered with cuts and bruises, and blood was dripping consistently from a rather large one slashed through his guild mark, which would definitely scar. Despite his obvious injuries, he didn’t feel anything.

He stood on bare and shredded feet, slowly making his way through the shards of glass to find Rogue and tell him that they could go home now, that the city was saved and that there was no reason to cry anymore.

“Rogue?” He repeated over and over in a mechanical voice. “Rogue, where are you?”

Bloody arms reached out as he stumbled through numbing pain, and were hardly shaken when a hand grasped his clean shoulder.

“Sting, he’s…” Natsu tried to speak through heavy tears, but only managed to tighten his grip. The light slayer didn’t pay him any attention.

“I have to find Rogue; he’ll cut himself on the glass if he’s not careful,”  

“Y-you’re hurt,” He tried again, “We have to go back, we have to help you,”

“I can’t,” Sting said in the same tone, slowly losing his footing and falling into Natsu’s hold, “He needs me; he’ll get hurt if I don’t find him,”

Natsu was sensitive and couldn’t bring himself to say anything else but _I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, he loved you, I’m sorry,_ and the use of past tense shook Sting to the point of looking around at the mess around him.

“Rogue… R-Rogue will… He’s…” His heart was beating faster and the high pitched shriek in the back of his head began to dull—which was what made him look down at himself and then choke on a gasp.

_“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, he loved you,”_

The string snapped inside of Sting and he screamed into Natsu’s scarf, because the blood on his hands wasn’t his.

.

The next month consisted of cigarettes and bandages and a throbbing in his head that resembled the sound of a broken clock ticking.

The month after that consisted of bloody wrists and long sleeve shirts.

Every day there was Rogue’s voice in his head, telling him to get up and live again, but that voice was always drowned out by a stronger one saying that _it should’ve been you, he didn’t deserve it, it’s your fault._

It took more than a year to shut that voice up.

He didn’t know why the first day was so different, maybe because he was able to get out of bed at a reasonable time and eat breakfast without wanting to puke it up afterwards. Maybe it was because he walked into the guild with a small smile that sent Yukino into a fit. In the end, he went to sleep wanting to die just a little less.

It got better from then on. Of course there were bad days, days where Sting woke up to visions of Rogue’s corpse behind his eyelids that made him sick. There were still days where he could do nothing but curl up in the dark corner of his room and regret every decision he’d ever made. But he kept going, because that’s what Rogue would want.

“He did it for you, you know,” Gray had told him on one of his visits, “Don’t ruin what he saved,”

Sting nodded, because he knew what he meant, just as he knew that Gray had gone through the same shit multiple times and was still (miraculously) alive to “share his wisdom”, or so Natsu had called it.

He replayed those words every time it was hard to get out of bed.

 (On those days, Rogue would’ve called him stubborn and kissed the old scar running through his right eyebrow until Sting groaned himself awake.)

It was Rogue Sting thought about as he rebuilt his friendship with Lector and Frosch, who eagerly invited themselves back into his life before he had a chance to overthink things. They, along with the ever-so-strong memory, became his reason for living. And he knew he couldn’t make Frosch costumes as well as Rogue did, or crack jokes with Lector as well as he used to, but he could try. And he did.

His heart was out of tune against the rest of the world, but it still beat as loudly as it had the first time he had seen Rogue; back when he was the shy boy traveling alone.

Sting could only smile when he thought of that night, smile and wonder how he could remember it even now. He could think of every detail, like how the sky had been dark, except for the streaks of red bleeding from the drifting star.

There was an answer as to _why_ somewhere; he knew that—it was probably buried within the thousands of reasons revolving around why he loved Rogue. He didn’t think too hard about it, though, because the memory itself was enough. Rogue soothed him, brought him _home_.

All Sting had to do was go back to when he was young and hiding behind skeleton trees, thinking about how the sun was almost as red as the pale boy's eyes.


End file.
